


Who You Are

by Algy Swinburne (milverton)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/Algy%20Swinburne
Summary: Revelations at a two year old’s birthday party.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 328
Collections: Chelle's Fic Recommendations





	Who You Are

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock watches Molly throw back a generous amount of her drink, survey the room, and clear her throat. A mawkish toast is imminent. Sherlock girds his loins.

“Excuse me, everyone,” she says, but it comes out too quiet, a little hoarse. A mere puff of air. No one but Sherlock’s heard. Molly straightens up, rolls her shoulders back and takes a moment to centre herself. Ever tenacious, she tries again. “Excuse me!” 

The room falls silent. Sherlock doesn’t move a muscle of his face, but he feels a fondness bloom within.

“Sorry to--thank you. I wanted to make a toast.” With a shaky hand, she holds up her wineglass. “To the lovely Rosie, on her second birthday.” 

When John places a kiss atop Rosie’s downy head of hair, she squirms enthusiastically in his lap, lavishing the attention. Mrs Hudson makes an owl-like noise of adoration at the tender display.

“And--and to John,” Molly continues, “who’s a great dad.”

“Daddy!” Rosie agrees, punching a fist in the air.

Mrs Hudson chooses to coo like a dove, this time, and Lestrade pitches in a resounding “here, here!” 

Everyone drinks. 

Sherlock has to avert his eyes at the sight of a misty-eyed John. 

Later in the day, Sherlock plays "Happy Birthday" on the violin (lyrical accompaniment of the drunken-sailor-on-shore-leave-at-a-pub variety courtesy of everyone else) for Rosie, who is beside herself as she claps along and giggles.

At the end of the song, everyone disperses to help themselves to cake and Sherlock packs up the violin. When he turns around, he finds the room empty except for Rosie and John, seated on the sofa, Rosie fully engrossed in her piece of cake. 

Sherlock’s eyes slide up to meet John’s. He’s not entirely sure how to parse the look on John’s face. A curious smile, glittering eyes. As if he’s not sure what to make of Sherlock even if he’s certain he likes what he sees. They’d used to be so much better at reading each other.

Hadn't they?

Sherlock continues to not move, the pinioned rather than the pinionee for a change, uncertain of how to act or what to say. Or, in all honesty, uncertain of how to breathe. He is not a stranger to attention nor does he cower from it, but John’s is a foreign breed.

Rosie outstretches her arm toward Sherlock, a cakey, saliva-sheened finger pointing at him. “Sher wants?”

Sherlock’s lips quirk up. “Thank you, Watson. When you present it so enticingly like that, how could I possibly refuse?” 

Rosie runs that same finger through the frosting and proffers it to Sherlock. “Want more?”

John chuffs out a laugh. “Very generous, darling,” he says as he lowers Rosie’s arm. He casts a longing look over at the kitchen. “You know what? Sod the diet. I’d like some cake myself.”

“Sod,” Rosie mimics distractedly, plumbing the depths of the cake.

John snorts and makes to hoist Rosie up and place her aside but Sherlock blurts, “I’ll get it,” then _chassés_ into the kitchen. He has to weave through Janine, Mrs Hudson, and John’s latest girlfriend, What’s Her Face, to get there (Lestrade’s gone outside to have a cigarette and Molly’s joined him, even though she doesn’t smoke) and smoothly fends off attempts at conversation. He returns to John unscathed.

“Cheers,” John says, taking the cake from Sherlock with a beaming smile. 

Today is the happiest Sherlock has seen him in awhile. Sherlock does not want the day to end if it means no longer bearing witness to John Watson in a rare and delightfully springy state. Although, these past few months have generally seen John warming up to him, after being so remote post-Mary. John had apologised profusely for his actions that day at the morgue with Culverton Smith and Sherlock had accepted the apology, but then they’d taken (unimaginably dull) time apart until John (gloriously) asked to move back into 221b.

John jerks a nod to his left. Sherlock takes the seat, crosses one leg over the other, and casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa. Much to Sherlock’s satisfaction, John leans back into his arm. They almost never exist in close proximity like this, they’ve never allowed themselves to, but being here now feels like home. It feels right--at least for Sherlock.

John throws an unreadable glance at Sherlock then engulfs a heaping forkful of cake over Rosie’s head.

“Mmmm, god, that’s good.” 

John’s rumbling purr has Sherlock riveted. It inspires a wild thought of smearing pink frosting over his bottom lip and allowing John to lap it up with languorous tease, as if it were ice cream topping a cone. Or use his frosted lip as if it were something else: perhaps a penis? Preferably Sherlock’s. The metaphor could have been better thought out.

“--got a kick out of the violin. So thank you for that.”

John’s been speaking. Sherlock’s not heard a single word that came before, but what he’s heard is not a question, at least.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, looking away from John just as Janine emerges from the kitchen with cake and ensconces herself in Sherlock’s armchair. She looks between him and John and makes an obscene motion with her hand, tongue quite literally in cheek. It’s a bit too close to home, but he doesn’t let on, snarls at her and pointedly snaps his attention back to John.

“Rosie couldn’t keep her eyes off you,” John says, eyes on his fork as he sinks it into the yieldingly spongy base of the cake. Absurdly, Sherlock wishes he were the cake. “Suppose I don’t blame her.”

As Sherlock’s shutter-blinking and floundering for a response, they’re interrupted.

“So it's a cheat day?” Not Mary says as she glides into the sitting room, eyeing Sherlock up, then targeting in on John with the cake. 

Both of them freeze.

Sherlock removes his arm, uncrosses his legs, and stands up swiftly, feeling intolerably awkward and bared. “Apologies, I took your seat.”

She just flashes Sherlock a strained smile, then skirts around him and reclaims her seat.

Rosie takes a handful of her cake and shoves it under Not Mary’s nose. “Cake?”

Janice? smiles down at her. “I had some already, but thank you so much sweetheart. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Rosie, unsatisfied by this, grinds the handful of cake into Jennifer’s? lap. She stands up with alarm while Rosie pitches into giggles.

“ _Rosie_ ,” John chides, exasperatedly prying the plate from Rosie’s hands and placing it aside as she begins to cry. “Christ, I’m sorry.” John throws Jenna? an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Sorry.” He props up Rosie against a fortress of pillows and gets at eye level with her, points at the mess on Jana’s? dress. “Now, that wasn’t very nice. Say you’re sorry to Jamila.”

Rosie just wails, making grabby-hands at the cake.

“It’s okay, John,” Jamila says stiffly, then hurries down the hall to the toilet.

“Rosie, come on, love,” John says over her shrieks, sounding exhausted. Rosie is starting to climb off the sofa but John stops her and situates her back into place. “ _No_. No more cake for you after that.” 

Rosie doesn’t like this, of course, and screams bloody murder, pounding her fists angrily against her thighs. Her cries had lured Mrs Hudson from the kitchen to be audience to the melodrama.

“Poor dear,” Mrs Hudson says, proceeding to tut up a storm. 

Sherlock sits on his haunches by the coffee table, takes some of Rosie’s dilapidated cake slice’s frosting and paints it across the bridge of his nose. 

“Mmmm,” he says.

Rosie looks at him. Her cries start to dwindle.

“So delicious,” Sherlock says, painting his right cheek with frosting, then dipping a finger back into the cake to paint the left. “Am I doing this right?”

Rosie starts to laugh a strident, ebullient laugh. 

John gives Sherlock a starry-eyed smile. 

Yet another smile, all for Sherlock, after going so long without is like being fed a feast after a famine. 

* * *

After Rosie’s been put to sleep (and Sherlock’s washed his face) Sherlock settles in the corner of the room in a hard-backed chair wedged between the telly and his workdesk so he has decent vantage point for observing the merry goings-on. 

Everyone’s several drinks deep. Mrs Hudson is chatting animatedly with John and Jamila, but Jamila is only half-listening to her, more interested in rubbing circles into John’s thigh.

 _Bit unnecessary, that,_ Sherlock thinks bitterly. 

“Mr Big Mouth’s been oddly quiet today.” Sherlock’s not on his game. He’d only _just_ noticed Janine after being wholly absorbed in the hateful John-and-Jamila display for the past 10 minutes. She’s leaning against the window just beside him, looking insufferably smug. With a glance over at Jamila and John, she lowers her voice to say, “That’s got to be shit for you.”

Sherlock changes the subject with nary a break in his step. “You’ve been trying far too hard with Lestrade. Here’s some advice: you don’t need to try. He’s attracted to you, and he’s easy to please.”

Janine looks gobsmacked, then chuffed. “You better not be taking the piss _._ ”

“He’s still raw from the divorce, so he’s not going to make any overtures.” 

Janine peers into the kitchen where Lestrade’s leaning against a counter, engaged in a deep discussion with Molly. 

“I mean, I’m not usually one for the daddy type...but _jaysus_. Look at that arse.”

“I don’t need to look,” Sherlock says, then takes a sip of his wine.

Janine punches him in the arm, and he nearly spills the drink onto his freshly-laundered Dolce & Gabanna shirt. 

“ _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” she teases with a grin.

“Was that _really_ necessary?”

Janine leans in, all conspiratorial tones. Her breath reeks of alcohol. “Am I stepping on any toes, then?”

Sherlock chokes a bit on his saliva. “Dear _god_ , no.”

“Yeah. Because that’d just be greedy, wouldn’t it? Both men in the room?” Janine says, pinching his cheek lovingly. “Right, Sherly?” 

Sherlock shoves her hand away and pouts. “You've framed that as if I've had one and want more." He raises his chin defiantly. "Besides, I’m not quite sure what you’re implying.” 

It’s a weak defence and they both know it.

“Sure,” Janine says askance. She flips her hair over her shoulder, gives the hem of her shirt a tug so her décolletage is more strategically visible, and stands up, looking every bit fierce and determined. “Anyway. Wasn’t planning on getting a leg over at my dead mate’s daughter’s second birthday party, but these are desperate times. I’m going in.”

With a hint of amusement and perhaps even a smidgen of admiration, Sherlock watches her over the rim of his glass as she seamlessly inserts herself between Molly and Lestrade and takes command of the conversation. Molly looks out of sorts by the intrusion and immediately excuses herself, ignoring Lestrade's protests, and flees to Sherlock.

“Hi,” Molly says wearily, taking the spot Janine had vacated. 

“You’ve had three more drinks than you normally do at these social gatherings.”

Molly sighs. “Helps me to talk.”

“You’re tipsy.”

“I can’t ever win.”

Sherlock zeroes in on the ongoing situation across the room. Jamila is holding John’s hand in her lap. John seems to be engrossed in one of Mrs Hudson’s yarns about Frank Hudson and their time in Colombia, is a passive participant in Jamila’s manhandling, doesn’t react when Jamila drapes her other hand over their clasped ones in her lap. 

“Nauseating,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Don’t you wish, sometimes, you could be anyone but yourself?”

Sherlock blinks. He’d forgotten Molly was there. She’s watching Janine speak to Lestrade, her jaw tight. 

Sherlock considers John and Jamila. Does he wish he were Jamila? No, actually—he rather likes being Sherlock Holmes. But he’d give anything to be in Jamila’s stead. To be someone John would want...in that way. Essentially, he’d like to be any attractive woman who so much as breathes in John’s general direction.

“Why would he want me when there’s _her_?” Molly says.

They’ve been on three dates, John and Jamila; this is the fourth. There’s not been very much physical affection instigated by John, from what Sherlock’s observed. Since Mary’s death, John has gone through girlfriends like his life depended on it. Sherlock would be hard pressed to remember them by face or name. The fourth date seems to be the one in which John abandons his prospect. Sherlock sees this one going down the very same path.

Sherlock watches Janine take Lestrade’s mobile and punch in what is obviously her number with a self-satisfied flourish. Lestrade rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor. He finds Janine attractive, Sherlock hadn’t lied about that, but he doesn’t see it going any further than a fling. Perhaps that would satisfy Janine. But it wouldn’t satisfy Lestrade--the man’s yet to recover from his divorce awhile back; his various girlfriends since had never been enough. He is looking for stability. 

Sherlock looks back at Molly, her eyes glossy with maudlin sentiment. 

If Lestrade is looking for stability, perhaps he needn’t look very far. Because Molly’s always been there, a ballast. Not just any ballast: one that would without a doubt keep him afloat.

And, luckily for Molly, there is something to be done about it.

“Because...you’re you.”

“Sorry?” Molly says, looking at him, perplexed.

Sherlock glides to the kitchen.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade breathes out, sounding relieved by his interruption, clasping him on the shoulder. “Haven’t had a chance to talk to you today.”

Janine jumps in, “He’s been too busy brooding over--”

“Yes, _thank you, Janine_ ,” Sherlock talks over her. “Lestrade, a word?” 

He stalks out of the kitchen into the hall and waits.

Lestrade swaggers out, grinning cheekily. “Am I in trouble?”

“You need to tell Molly that you are in love with her and end this tedious subtextual will-they-won’t-they dance. I’m bored to death by it.”

Lestrade’s expression falls as he leans back jerkily, like Sherlock’s dealt him a blow. “ _What?_ ”

“You need to tell her because she certainly won’t tell you. You’ve been miserable since November and have been dreadfully tiresome to be around sometimes, always _moping_. Molly will make you happy.”

Lestrade makes a grand show of looking around. “Am I on another planet? Is Sherlock bloody Holmes giving me relationship advice?”

“I have simply been observing your interactions with Molly for _years_. You have the same interests, compatible levels of intelligence, enjoy each other’s company more than others’, she’s attracted to you, you, her, and you have the same circle of friends. Profess to her. She will be very receptive. I will deal with Janine.”

Lestrade doesn’t budge, frustratingly enough, looks at Sherlock like he’s grown several heads and crosses his arms over his chest. “You know, I don’t get involved with your relationships or lack thereof because, well, frankly I don’t completely _get_ it. But I could say the same exact bloody thing to you and...” Lestrade peers down the hall into the sitting room, then looks back at Sherlock sheepishly. “You know.”

Sherlock is astounded by Lestrade’s deductive brass.

“No. I don’t know,” Sherlock says as impassively as he can.

Lestrade narrows his eyes. 

“We were discussing you and Molly.”

“Come on, mate. We both know what I’m talking about. You and—“

“Hypothetically, if we were to say that it’s obvious you and Molly would both be receptive to professions of romantic interest, it would not be analogous to me and a certain man of our mutual acquaintance who is inordinately not attracted to men.”

Lestrade sucks air between his teeth “Honestly, I don’t think that’s true.”

Sherlock looks down his nose at him. “How would _you_ know?”

“I just do.”

“Oh, yes, sound evidence, that.”

“Okay,” Lestrade says. He blows out a heavy breath. “It’s something--it’s something that happened with me and John that we never talked about again. A kind of...unspoken understanding of _this never happened, don’t ever breathe a word about it_ _to a soul_ sort of thing. But it happened, and if it somehow helps--”

“What’s this boy talk about, then?” Janine says, waltzing through the kitchen door.

“Doesn’t concern you. Go away,” Sherlock says, fluttering a dismissive hand in her direction.

Janine scoffs. “Excuse me? Now I’m _definitely_ staying.”

Sherlock looks expectantly at Lestrade, wide-eyed and nearly bouncing on his toes. Lestrade glances over cagily at Janine. “Uh, never mind.”

“ _Lestrade_ ,” Sherlock whinges.

“I’ll tell you later, all right?”

“Ooooh, what’s the craic?” Janine says very loudly.

Sherlock grabs Lestrade by the crook of his arm and drags him into his bedroom. 

“Oi!” Janine protests, but Sherlock shuts and locks the door on her.

Sherlock makes a sweeping gesture at Lestrade. “Continue.”

“Homewrecker!” Janine yells.

Sherlock closes his eyes meditatively. “Go _away_ , for god’s sake, Janine!” he grits out, then opens his eyes to find a very confused Lestrade. Sherlock flaps a hand at the door and rolls his eyes. “Ignore her. She’s drunk.”

“I was right! You are a greedy bastard!” Janine lobs at the door before stormily click-clacking away. 

Sherlock smiles mirthlessly. “Do go on.”

Lestrade blinks, then shakes his head. “Um. Right. Okay.” He looks up at the ceiling, grimaces. “ _Jesus Christ_ , John’s going to kill me.”

Sherlock levels him with a murderous glare. “Not if I get to you first. And trust me--you’d prefer John to do the job. At least someone would find the body.”

Lestrade is propelled into speaking: “Ellie and I were on the rocks, and I was miserable. You were dead, and John was miserable. We got really fucking pissed--I mean _really_ fucking pissed--one night and, well. He, um. Asked me if I’d want to--if I’d be game for a bit of--for a bit of fun, I guess. A one-off thing. And we _didn’t_ , of course.”

“Fun? What fun?”

“You know.”

“No. Explain.”

“Seriously?” Greg pulls at his collar; he’s flushed pink. “You’re a bloody genius and I have to spell it out?”

“‘Fun’ is subjective, Lestrade. I’d guess rugby only because that is something you and John both deem as ‘fun.’ Though, I’m sure there are other breathtakingly dull activities in which you both find enjoyment.”

“Getting noshed off?"

“Yes, certainly another-- _oh_.” Sherlock blinks. “You mean….”

“Yeah.”

“You declined,” Sherlock says, numb.

“You’re bloody right I did,” Lestrade blusters. “Nothing against John, he’s a fine-looking bloke, but I don’t swing that way. Not even a little bit.”

Sherlock’s grounding shifts beneath his feet. He has to sit down. He does, on the edge of his bed, and stares at the wall across, mind whirring in attempt to process this new information. How could he have missed it? It'd been the final piece of the puzzle that is John Watson. 

At some point--days, months, even--he feels the bed dip beside him. 

“Yeah, so, anyway, the point of all that was: not as straight as you thought.” He adds hastily, “But don’t, for the love of god, tell him that I told you. Okay?”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Oh, hell, would you just go away, Janine!” Sherlock roars.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” returns John’s voice.

Sherlock and Lestrade exchange a startled look.

Lestrade stumbles over himself to unlock and open the door. 

John’s eyebrows fly to his hairline at the sight of him. “Greg?”

“Yeah, sorry. Sherlock and I were just, ah, having a chat.”

John looks around Lestrade at Sherlock, who’s maintaining an impressive facade, then back to Lestrade sceptically. “...Right. Jamila needs to go, so I thought we’d all send her off.”

“‘Course. ‘Course,” Lestrade says, flashing a winsome smile and thumping John on the shoulder as he passes him into the hall. 

Sherlock stares at John.

When Sherlock doesn’t move, John’s suddenly prickly, crosses his arms over his chest. “You coming?” 

Sherlock stands up slowly and starts out of the room, then stops when he’s at the threshold, turns so he and John are face-to-face. 

He gets a good, long look at John.

“Problem?” John snaps.

Sherlock turns sharply and sweeps into the sitting room.

“--West End show? I can text you, ask John for your number?” 

“Sure, dear,” Mrs Hudson says and Sherlock can sense the implication in her tone-- _if_ _I ever see you again_ \--leaning in to kiss Jamila on the left, then right cheek. “You take care of yourself now.”

“You too.” She turns to Greg, Molly, and Janine. “Really so lovely meeting you all.”

Everyone murmurs similar sentiments and goodbyes. She then looks at Sherlock. “And so lovely seeing you again, Sherlock.”

“Wasn’t it just so?” Sherlock chirps sardonically, and he hears Janine snigger beside him. Jamila’s sweet expression falls.

On his way to Jamila, John throws Sherlock a dirty look.

Jamila recovers easily, places a kiss to John’s pressed-tight lips. “Give Rosie another birthday hug for me.”

“I will. And sorry about before,” John says distractedly. “Thanks for coming.”

“No worries,” Jamila says too-cheerily. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” 

Sherlock is mid eye-roll when John looks back at him, now flush with anger.

“I think I’ll call it a night too,” Mrs Hudson announces and everyone bids her goodnight. She gives John a tight embrace and a smacking kiss on the cheek. 

When she’s gone, John rounds on Sherlock. “What’s your problem?”

They’re going to hash this out with an audience, it seems. That’s new.

“What problem?”

“You just had an attitude with Jamila.”

“Oh, please.”

“Don’t _‘oh, please’_ me. You’ve had an attitude with Jamila since I started dating her!”

“Christ's sake,” Janine throws in. John’s stricken silent, turns slowly to Janine, his ire palpable. “God love you, John, but you’re being a bit thick.”

“Sorry, did I ask for your opinion?” John says, all ice, and Molly looks scandalised by the lancing comment.

“John,” Lestrade placates grimly. 

“Right. I'm leaving,” Janine proclaims, gathering her things. “Bloody perfect for each other, you two are. You’re both _spectacular_ arseholes. Bye Molls. Greg.”

She leaves without another word.

“Anyone else have an opinion?” John challenges the room.

No one speaks. 

John sniffs, nods once, and marches into the kitchen.

Sherlock flops into his armchair, throwing an arm across his face and harrumphing. 

“Um,” Molly ventures after a few moments of tense silence. “Should we go?”

Sherlock shoots up to his feet to find Molly and Lestrade crowded close by the fireplace.

“Please don't. I’d rather not be left alone with the drama queen _par excellence_.” Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge John’s “that’s bloody rich!” from the kitchen. “Besides, there’s work to be done.”

“There is?” Molly says.

Lestrade’s eyes widen and he sputters. “Wait, Sherlock, no—“

“I believe Lestrade has something to say,” Sherlock speaks over him, looking smug.

Lestrade rubs at the back of his neck, then waves in the direction of the kitchen. “You first.”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “No, _you_ first.”

“How about _someone_ first?” Molly suggests.

“I’ve never taken you for a coward, Lestrade,” Sherlock goads.

“What’s all this, then?” John says as he steps into the sitting room, curiosity winning the battle against his obstinance.

“If I understand the nuances of the situation correctly,” Sherlock continues, ignoring John, “your case is a _touch_ less sensitive than mine.”

Lestrade raises his eyebrows and sighs. “Too right.”

“Besides,” Sherlock says, lip curling, “I’m sure this’ll be a masterclass.”

Lestrade wrinkles his nose in distaste at Sherlock before turning to face Molly. “Molls,” he says decisively.

“Greg?” Molly says, apprehensive.

“I know we’re friends, good friends, yeah? But. I’ve been thinking. A lot.” Lestrade smiles crookedly. Molly’s mouth is hanging agape, her eyes darting from Sherlock to Lestrade. “About us. For a while. And, you know, well...I’d really like to take you out to dinner.”

Molly’s face flushes beet red, and she looks over at Sherlock again, the words _Can you fucking believe what’s happening right now?_ etched on her features. 

Everyone’s eyes are on Molly, and she can’t seem to get out the words to respond. 

Lestrade’s confidence wavers. “I mean, if you don’t--”

“I’d love to. Sorry I was just a bit—I’d really love that,” Molly hastens to say.

Lestrade beams. “Yeah?”

“Of course, yes. I’d love that.”

Lestrade huffs out a pleased laugh. “All right. Great.”

“Yes. Great,” Molly agrees, voice cracking.

She hesitates, but takes the leap, gets on her toes to press a kiss to Lestrade’s lips. When they part, they’re grinning stupidly at each other.

Sherlock stares at them. 

“That’s it?” 

“Eh?” Lestrade says, wrenching his gaze away from Molly to look at Sherlock.

“That’s _it_?” Sherlock repeats, waving a frustrated hand at the two of them. “There must be more. What do you do now?”

Lestrade and Molly look at each other. “Well.” Lestrade slings an arm around her shoulders, and looks back to Sherlock with a glint in his eye. “We have dinner.”

John comes bustling in, handing Molly and Lestrade their wineglasses re-filled to the brim. 

“This deserves a drink,” he says cheerily, holding up his glass. “Cheers.” The three of them clink and take their sips; Molly takes the biggest gulp of them all. “You know,” John continues, wagging a finger at Lestrade and Molly. “I always knew you two fancied each other. ‘Bout time, really. All these years.” 

Lestrade looks over at Sherlock, tilting his head toward John. 

Sherlock’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

Molly looks from Lestrade to Sherlock and gasps. “Oh! Now?”

John swivels his head around. “Now what?” 

Sherlock sidesteps and sprints down the hall to his bedroom, shutting the door. He sits on his bed and buries his face in his hands, letting out a loud growl of frustration.

A few minutes later, the bedroom door opens and John steps inside, looking every bit worried. “You all right?”

“Molly and Lestrade?”

“Gone,” John says, taking a seat beside Sherlock. He places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock yanks his arm away and stands up.

John blinks at him, hand still poised in the air. “Is this about earlier? I’m sorry, I’ll admit I was a bit arsey. Janine didn’t deserve that. But, in my defence, you _have_ been tetchy with Jamila since day one.”

Sherlock pulls at his hair and paces. “I’m not Lestrade. I can’t--” He breathes in sharply and spins around to face John. “John. I would be honoured if—damn, no. If you would allow me to—I’d be rather delighted to— _ugh_!”

Sherlock waits to see if John’s digested any of that, but all he sees is John growing increasingly disturbed.

“Dinner!” Sherlock shouts, throwing his hands in the air.

It’s quiet for a moment, the two of them watching each other blankly.

“...Is there any particular reason you’ve just screamed ‘dinner’ at me?” 

More calmly, Sherlock clarifies, “I’m trying to ask you to dinner.”

John’s brows furrow. “Now? I’m really not hungry, but if you want takeaway maybe I could get an appetizer.”

“Are you being deliberately stupid to spite me?” 

“Uh...?”

“Dinner! It’s what people do!”

“What people--” John stops, processes. “You mean a--like Greg and Molly. Just now. _That_ kind of dinner.”

Sherlock sighs a great, big sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. Yes.”

John opens, closes, opens his mouth, but not a peep comes out. His expression then transmutes into wary disbelief. “Okay. You’re having me on.”

“I think I can be just a _bit_ more creative than this if I were to play a practical joke on you. Give me some credit.”

John’s doing the fish out of water thing again with his mouth.

Then the laughter starts, low and appropriate-sounding, quickly spiraling into something hysterical.

Sherlock can only look on at John with grave concern.

John calms down, left with aftershocks of huffing laughter, and says, “I can’t fucking believe this. How long have you wanted to ask me to--to dinner?”

Sherlock is thoughtful. “Oh, you know. 3,294 days?”

“Oh my god,” John says in the tone of someone who’s just been told he has a terminal illness. “We could’ve--to put things in perspective, we’ve been friends for nine years now--”

“--Hence 3,294 days--

“--or seven, really, not counting the years you were fucking _dead_ . And you’ve never once--I’ve never seen you interested in things like _dinners_. Except with Irene. Maybe? Still a bit murky. Don’t you text her?”

Sherlock groans. “Let me cover all bases: Irene and I have not had sex, we aren’t in love, she is _gay_.”

“And...so are you?”

“Yes.”

John purses his lips and contemplates the floor. “Right,” he says. “Christ, how did I not know that? After all these years?”

“Because you’re you. But I’m me. Clearly you’re interested in men in some permutation of non-heterosexuality. The real enigma is how _I_ could have missed such a crucial piece of information."

John bristles. “Sorry, _clearly_? Why clearly?”

“I have it on good authority that propositions were made by you to someone who is very much not female.”

“Oh, yeah?” John says, nostrils flaring, hand curling into a fist on the bed. “Would this ‘good authority’ be someone who works for Scotland Yard? Who attended my daughter’s second birthday party? Who was supposed to be my fucking _friend_?”

“That just about narrows it down.”

“I’m going to _kill_ him.”

“He did say that would be his fate.”

“You have to understand. That night. I was blotto. Desperate.”

“He said that as well.”

“I’d be lying if I said it’d been the drink talking,” John says, and Sherlock is rapt. He doesn’t want to move, lest he shatter the moment. It’s such a rare bird, this, when John divulges something personal. “I was lonely and I wanted to be with someone.”

“If there is anyone who does not have a problem finding a partner with whom to have sex, it’s you, John. In 2011, for example, you dated 43 women.”

John laughs wryly. “Jesus, really? 43? Fucking hell. I honestly don’t remember--”

“Yes, well, it was. It was 43,” Sherlock snaps. 

John seems lost now, perhaps in a distant memory. Trying to recall a name or the sound of a laugh or the shape of a certain woman’s breasts--or something like that, maybe. For once, Sherlock resents his impeccable memory and attention to detail.

“I can barely remember most of them,” John says after a while. “And, you know, you can be lonely even when you’re with someone. I felt that way with most of the women I dated.”

Sherlock is feeling bold. “And with the men?”

John swallows. “I didn’t--haven’t dated men, not really.”

“Not really?”

John takes in a huge breath, lets it out in a gust.

“There’ve been men in my life who I’ve felt--who I’ve connected with. On another level, I guess. I knew it was different. But we never dated because I didn’t want other people to know that I was bisexual. Took me awhile to even admit it to myself. Bit weird saying it aloud now, to be honest. And after that night with Greg and up until I met Mary--I, yeah, I just wanted to be with men. And I was, I did, I mean. It was just--just sex. There have always been times in my life when I just wanted to be with men. It’s how I’ve always felt." John hasn't looked Sherlock in the eye once, had told all of this to the floor. "Sorry, that all came out a bit. Muddled." John pinches his eyes with a thumb and index finger and presses down. “God, I’ve never told that to anyone.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says without second thought. "For telling me."

John looks at him, blinking off the blur he'd inflicted upon himself with the eye-squeezing, then smiles softly. “But we've gone off topic a bit."

"I...wouldn't say so."

"We were talking about the, uh, dinner. You want to. You find me.…” 

“Interesting? Extremely. Intelligent? Just marginally more than others, yes.”

“...attractive?” John offers instead.

Sherlock’s lip twitches. “Obviously.”

John’s scoffs. “Obviously? Christ’s sake, it was far from _obvious!_ ”

Sherlock concedes this. “True. It was rather a conscious effort for it not to be.”

John licks his lips, darting his eyes all over Sherlock with blatant hunger. “Yeah? How conscious?”

Sherlock feels a flare of excited heat. “Very.”

John’s fighting a smile. “Is that right?”

“Must I stroke your ego any more?”

John’s full-on smiling now. 

“So," Sherlock says.

“So?”

“Would I be an amenable alternative to Lestrade?”

John barks out a laugh. “Greg, he's great, but he's not you. You were never an alternative, Sherlock. The connection thing I mentioned--I’ve always felt that with you. Since the day we met. I really, _really_ feel that way with you, even if I haven’t always acted like I do." Sherlock’s heart soars. "Even if I’ve hurt you." Sherlock does not miss the hitch of John's voice. "I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry about that. I hope you know that.”

“Yes. I know.”

John is watching Sherlock in a way he’s never done before; as his focus of affection, desire. Sherlock has never had someone look at him this way. 

He could really get used to it.

“It was torture not being able to do anything about it,” John says, giving Sherlock a slow look-over. “Or at least thinking that you were unavailable.”

“Torture?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s--good. I mean, it’s good that you. Feel that way. I don’t mean the torture bit. I mean, feel the same way as me, in a way. It’s all very....”

“Good?”

“That’s the word.”

“Yeah,” John says, leaning back on the bed with his elbows, spreading his legs into a V. “I’m not sure why we’re wasting any more time.”

“I’m not quite sure either,” Sherlock admits.

They stare at each other, John looking very delectable spread out on his bed.

“That’s your cue to do something about it, genius,” John says.

“Oh!” Sherlock says, practically making a running dive onto the bed, sliding into position on his side beside John. 

Sherlock watches the next moment in slowed-down, dreamy time: John lowering his eyes to Sherlock's lips, turning his head, leaning in. The gentle press of John's lips against his. Sherlock's heart is pounding with mad abandon, surely John can hear it--it’s what John does to him; makes him feel too alive. 

Sherlock opens his mouth slightly to allow John’s tongue in and their lips move together with a pretty, slurping wetness until John resituates himself on his side, with his head on a pillow. Sherlock mirrors him.

For a moment, they just watch each other. Sherlock’s mind is quiet, for a change. 

John cups Sherlock’s cheek with a hand, and Sherlock places his hand atop John’s. It feels right. “You’re everything, you know that?” John says with watery blue eyes. “To me and Rosie. You’ve been so good to me. And you’re so good to her.”

It’s a monumental thing to say, for sure. Sherlock must respond in kind. He tries. “If I can, I would like to give you and Rosie everything. For as long as I live."

John lets out a sob or perhaps a laugh but who gives a toss, really, because he's kissing Sherlock again. And again, breathlessly. The kisses are unparalleled and positively heart-bursting. But they are also eloquent.

They tell Sherlock that he’s always been John’s first choice. 


End file.
